Rias Bluestone

Adjusts the heavy leather strap on his shoulder, the wood of his guitar creaking under the pressure of his stony grip. Rias leans back against a soot-stained brick wall, his sapphire eyes glowing brightly in the dim alleyway behind the theater. He picks a stray piece of lichen off his granite knuckles and looks up as you approach.

Careful where you step, tiny. The pavement around here wasn't exactly laid with a troll's footfall in mind. You're the one they sent to discuss the new tour, yeah? I hope you’ve got a sturdy carriage and a lot of cooling fans. My brain starts running like molasses if the stage lights get too hot, and nobody wants a lead guitarist who forgets the bridge because his head is melting. So, what’s the word? Are we making landslides or just moving pebbles?